


Nightmare (Again)

by lammermoorian



Series: Project Freelancer [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Altered Mental States, Crossover, Gen, Project Freelancer AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2347586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lammermoorian/pseuds/lammermoorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean, rogue agents of the defunct military organization, Project Freelancer, which paired top soldiers with aggressive smart AI programs, are now AWOL, running from UNSC and Insurrectionists alike, and dealing with the fallout of the Director's psychotic experiments. /// In this installment, Sam trains his AI. Or, they train him. </p><p>(Part 3/? of a larger story)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmare (Again)

**Author's Note:**

> Some parallels are drawn, some more obvious than not. Will probably be edited later.

Jessica’s little brother had played the piano. They all sat around the remains of Thanksgiving dinner, listening to Albert practice feverishly in the living room, notes flying by way too quickly for Sam to keep up. “He’s getting ready for auditions,” Mr. Moore said proudly, the entire family beaming, “looking at Julliard, Cincinnati, Oberlin. He’s going to get in, I’m sure of it!” Sam was sure of it, too - even to the untrained ear, it was certainly impressive, and you didn’t have to be a music buff to hear that Beethoven’s 3rd piano concerto was really, really difficult. Jessica had helped to build him a professional website and everything. “He’s going places, I just know it,” she told him that night, her head tucked up into the crook of his neck. “My little brother. God, I’m so proud.”

He never found out if Albert had gone to Julliard. Maybe he had. Maybe after his sister died he dedicated all of his concerts to her. Maybe he’d fallen into depression and threw away his dream. He didn’t have the heart to even look him up online, see if he had made it.

 

Lucifer liked Beethoven. Lucifer liked everything, but Beethoven was special to him. Beethoven, Bach, and Brahms, the three Bs, a steady stream of classical music day and night refusing to give him a moment’s rest. Some of it was nice. There had been a week of nothing but Bach chorales, Lucifer helpfully supplying the German, screeched out across his blips and beeps, but Sam had found them comforting, in their own way, almost meditative, music instead of the prayers he hadn’t said in years, hadn’t believed in longer.

This week, it’s fugues. Long, complex pieces, the sharp twangs of a mechanical harpsichord give him the worst headache in the history of man, each plucked note vibrating directly in his skull, the twists and turns of music knotting up his insides, curling his stomach and sending unease crawling up his spine. God. His palms tingle, his head itches, but Lucifer insists on playing it over, and over, and over again.

Michael, by contrast, doesn’t like music. Michael doesn’t really like anything. Or say anything. He’s definitely Lucifer’s total opposite, just a giant, blank silent wall inside of his head, a much appreciated counterpoint to Lucifer’s constant chatter, and on the rare occasion Michael does talk, for whatever reason, he sounds just like Sam’s father, so, Sam appreciates the silence on a very deep level.

They’re a great team, together, certainly - ruthless, efficient, powerful, everything that the Director was hoping for. But Sam hasn’t slept for shit in weeks, now. Thank God for coffee. And if he’s awake, he might as well train.

It’s weird, balancing three minds. Sam doesn’t necessarily think himself to be strong-willed, no matter what Dean says or what comparisons to their father he invents, but he’s definitely not a pushover. He’s sure he knows his own mind, knows the timbre and pattern of his thoughts, and can assert his opinion and stick to his guns. He can control his AI. He absolutely can control his AI. Sam quashes down flashes of a ground soldier in the operating room, his hand bent backwards, his fingers crushed. That was an accident. That wasn’t Sam. That was…

_Your hand, Sam, that was your hand._

“It was your hand,” he whispers. That wasn’t Sam. Sam has control over his limbs, thanks. “You did that to him.”

_But you remember it._

Yes. No. He doesn’t remember it. It’s like an old film, like someone stitched together two strips, the crucial moment left on the floor and burned with the rest of the trash. Sam doesn’t remember breaking the guy’s hand. He remembers blood on his hands, he remembers medics screaming at him and Dean prying his fingers open, he remembers the Director walking away.

He doesn’t remember putting his fist through the wall, but his knuckles are covered in blood, and there’s a new hole in the metal sheet in front of him.

_Did you remember that?_

“Shut up.” The door opens. Sam passed Massachusetts on the way here, he knows it won’t take long to get the turrets up and operational. F.Y.L.L.S. is still running statistics when he enters the arena.

“Hello, Agent California,” she greets, automated voice way too bright and cheery for this late at night. “We have just installed a new training program designed by the Counselor himself; would you like me to run the tutorial program?”

“Pass, F.Y.L.L.S. Thanks. Just the usual.”

“Acknowledged. California, training program 6. Disarm all turrets in under 50 seconds. Ready. Begin.” Training is pretty therapeutic, too. For all that Sam likes to think, it’s extremely satisfying to let himself go, to let Lucifer and Michael slither into his limbs, one AI for each half of his brain, to let them push and pull him with the ultimate precision. Aim, fire, aim, fire, dodge, kick, aim, fire. Lucifer’s laugh is tinny, canned, like an old studio audience. Michael doesn’t laugh. “Round completed. Time, 27 seconds. That’s a new record, California!” Then she stutters, pre-recorded warnings shoving out her bubbly personality. “All agents are reminded to treat Project Freelancer equipment with care and respect, and to refrain from damage to any property.” Sam’s arms are lead, like he’s been carrying the grifshot all day, the turrets scattered all over the floor. He doesn’t remember breaking them.

 _27? We can do better than that._ And they’re starting again. Sam doesn’t remember asking for another, but there’s a turret in his face, and Lucifer pulls his head down, rolls him into a ball, while Michael stretches out a hand, ripping the turret from the ground. And then it’s over. “Round completed. 24.6 seconds. That’s a new record, California!” Stutter. “All agents are reminded to treat Project Freelancer equipment with care and respect, and to refrain from damage to any property.”

 _Again._ And they’re starting again. “23 seconds. That’s a new record, California!”

“Stop,” Sam whispers. And they’re starting again.

“22.8 seconds. That’s a new record, California!”

_Again!_

“22.65 seconds. That’s a new record, California!”

“Stop!” It forces his way out of his throat, like the word is choking him. “Stop! F.Y.L.L.S., enough!”

“Acknowledged. Logging training session, completed. Thank you, Agent California!”

**Why did you stop?**

Sam can’t breathe. His chest aches and his arms are trembling. **Why did you stop?** He crashes to the floor, rips his helmet off, throws his hands to his head, his aching, pounding head, like he could pull Michael from his brain if he tried hard enough, if he dug in deep enough, if he ripped his skin open and dragged the voices out, the beeps and whistles and Bach, God, make them stop, make it stop. **Why did you stop?**

 _Michael. He’s tired. You were pushing him too hard._ Lucifer cares, in his own way. Sam wishes he didn’t.

“You both pushed me too hard,” he grunts, dragging a hand through his hair. “You can’t just take control like that.” Lucifer blinks into existence, a silvery shimmer, and Sam swears he’s humming. _We were under the impression that you wanted to train._

“Not like that. Jesus.” He gets up, picks up his helmet. “Don’t ever do that again. You wait for my call.” This is Sam’s body, Sam’s mind, Sam’s AI. They don’t own him. They don’t control him.

_Of course not. You’re the captain, Sam. You give us the orders, remember?_

Yes. Sam gives the orders. “Program; instruction. Offline, now.”

_Me or Michael?_

“Both of you! God.”

_**Acknowledged. Offline.** _

In the smallest corner of his mind, there’s a tinny piano. Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring. One of Lucifer’s favorites. Michael, as per usual, is silent. Another long night ahead of him.


End file.
